


joe's diner

by kerrykins



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Diners, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 09:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18280172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerrykins/pseuds/kerrykins
Summary: Miranda and Andy spend some time together.





	joe's diner

**Author's Note:**

> So I had to do a thing for English focusing on characterisation and establishing a certain mood, so here it is! I made it as unobtrusively gay as I possibly could, I'm sorry

Miranda rubs her eyes, knocking her reading glasses askew. It’s late, but she wonders vaguely if her daughters are still up.

 

Shutting her laptop, she sets it carefully onto the table and rises from her seat. As she draws her silken robe around her tighter, she creeps down the hall, doing her best not to make the floorboards creak. Miranda opens their bedroom door, and she can’t stop her face from falling when she sees that they’re already asleep.

 

There just aren’t enough hours in a day. Miranda’s frustrated with the fact that whenever she’s finally finished with her work, no one is available. Perhaps she’s just grown too accustomed to having everyone bend to her whims. She closes the door as quietly as she can, and retreats back into her study.

 

Miranda sinks into the loveseat by the window, face-down, and groans into the pillows. She doesn’t even remember the last time she’s had a proper conversation with the girls. This week has been obscenely busy, board meetings, previews, and run-throughs crammed into every square inch of her schedule. She flops onto her back, staring absently at the ceiling. In the silver light of the moon, the room’s vibrant walls are washed out in grey and blue.

 

Her phone rings, and she flips it open, stealing a glance at the caller ID before picking up. “Andrea.”

 

“Hey, Miranda.” Andrea’s voice is light and warm. “I had a feeling I’d be able to catch you up this late. You in the mood to hang out?”

 

Miranda squints at her watch, which reads as ten o’clock. “What on earth would we do?”

 

“Hang out, like I said. No specific place or plans, just going wherever the wind takes us.” Miranda can envision Andrea smiling. “I could drive us around, or we could just walk around, whatever you’re down for.”

 

Miranda mulls over this for a moment before deciding on an answer. She supposes she’s ‘down,’ seeing as she definitely won’t be sleeping tonight, and has completed all her work. “All right. Where should I meet you?” She lets go of her phone for a moment, tilting her head to her shoulder as she reaches for her book, just to ensure she hasn’t overlooked anything crucial.

 

“I’m right outside already,” Andrea says with a small laugh. “Sorry for not telling you in advance, but I’m glad you said yes.” Miranda’s eyes widen. She’s wearing an old robe, her face bare of makeup, and hair disheveled from burying her face into the couch.

 

“Andrea, you can’t just show up like that,” Miranda tells her sternly. She relinquishes her hold on the book, leaning back into the couch. Her back twinges in pain, eliciting a grimace out of her. One of middle age’s many perks. “I need a couple minutes.”

 

On the other end, Andrea huffs. “Miranda, we’re not going to the Met Gala. At most, we’ll split some fries or stop by 7-Eleven.”

 

At these suggestions, Miranda wrinkles her nose in disgust. “How utterly charming. You really expect me to agree to this?”

 

“Well, yes.” The other woman sounds amused. “C’mon, live a little, Priestly.” Andrea’s the only person that has ever had the gall to speak to her like this. Therefore, Miranda obviously can’t turn her down. “Fine. Just let me get out of my pyjamas, for God’s sake.”

 

___

 

“So basically,” Andrea is saying. “My ass of an editor wouldn’t let me submit my damn article, because Paul turned his in first. And it wasn’t even his assignment, either, it was mine. He just took it.” She gestures with a fry in her hand, and Miranda watches the ketchup fly off of it warily. Splatters of bright red dot the table.

 

“That’s highly unprofessional of him,” Miranda says, plucking the fry from Andrea’s fingers. “Watch it, you’re getting ketchup everywhere.”

 

“Oops, sorry.” Andrea gives her a sheepish smile. “Hang on, I’ll go get some napkins.” She scoots out of the booth, and Miranda lets her gaze sweep over the diner. Rainwater blurs the large windows, the scarlet and yellow lights of cars in the parking lot reduced to blotches of colour, creating an almost mosaic-like effect. Thankfully, the diner is almost empty at this hour, the only other occupied booth at the other end of the restaurant, where two teenagers chat animatedly between bitefuls of burger.

 

Tom Jones wails on the jukebox, and Miranda strains her ears to listen. _It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone. It’s not unusual to have fun with anyone. But when I see you hanging about with anyone, it’s not unusual to see me cry, I wanna die._ The trumpets blare, and she finds herself humming along, tapping her finger aimlessly on the glass table top.

 

“Got ‘em.” Andrea slides back into her seat, throwing down a small mound of brown paper napkins. “I also got some sticker puzzles, if you’re interested.” Miranda raises an eyebrow at the proffered stickers, with anthropomorphic hamburgers and pastel Impalas. Without a word, she peels off the sticker labelled with a small number in the corner, and sticks it onto its corresponding square on the back.

 

“So what do you plan to do about Paul and your editor?”

 

Andrea bites her lip, as if to hold back a grin. “Are you doing the drive-through or amusement park puzzle?”

 

“Drive-through,” Miranda replies. “One tires of the amusement park after completing it fifty-something times.”

 

This time Andrea lets out a laugh. “Really? I didn’t pin you as a sticker puzzle aficionado.”

 

“Well, I’m not. I’ve just happened to eat here quite frequently.”

 

“You? Miranda Priestly, a regular at Joe’s Ol’ Diner? No one at Runway would believe me.”

 

“Once upon a time I was a regular,” Miranda continues. “Not anymore, however.” She’s transported to the days before she was editor-in-chief of the magazine, when she’d pool over photoshoots and articles in the security of her booth, always spending a dollar on the jukebox.

 

Back then, she’d been quite the fan of Elvis, and would always queue up two plays of Can’t Help Falling In Love With You. Occasionally her old friend Nancy would accompany her, and Miranda would listen to her rantings about work, her boyfriend Eric, and halfheartedly nod along. They’d split the bill evenly, but Nancy would always insist of paying for milkshakes. One time, after stumbling into the diner after the bar, Nancy drunkenly proclaimed to the entire diner that dessert was on her. She woke up the next morning to the realisation that she’d just blown two hundred dollars on pie, and Miranda had teased her nonstop about it.

 

Andrea tilts her head at her. Under the blinking, florescent lights of the open sign, the contours of her face are illuminated in cool indigo and blue. “Oh, that’s cool.” She doesn’t inquire further, which Miranda is greatly appreciative of.

 

Silence stretches between them, and eventually Miranda breaks it with, “Come with me to the jukebox for a moment.”

 

Andrea blinks, and without question, stands up and ambles over to the jukebox behind her.

 

“I used to do this every single night,” Miranda says, slipping four quarters into the machine. There’s a satisfying click as each coin falls in. She flips through the selection of songs, and punches a few keys in.

 

 _Wise men say,_ Elvis begins tremulously. _Only fools fall in. But I can’t help, falling in love with you._

 

“This was my favourite song when I was your age.” Miranda explains. “My friends were sick of hearing it and would always complain whenever it played.” She rolls her eyes. “Though they’d always blast the Ramones afterwards.”

 

“I don’t know who they are,” Andrea remarks. “My parents only really listened to classic jazz, so that’s all I’d hear growing up.”

 

“That doesn’t sound too torturous. What did you listen to, Louis Armstrong?”

 

Andrea begins to go on about jazz, and Miranda settles into the booth, listening attentively.


End file.
